Spoils of War
by LavenderBleu
Summary: Music has always been my safe haven. Now it will always be a reminder.


The war took his freedom; then it threatened his pride. Charles Emerson Winchester III was sent from a charming if primitive hospital in Tokyo to a slap in the face of modern medicine known as a MASH unit - not because anyone had heard of him, not because those poor, backwater doctors had begged for his surgical expertise, but to appease a general. He'd been the settlement inthe debt of a poker game, traded away like so much cattle. It wasn't so much the MASH unit itself that stole his dignity, but the manner in which he came there.

A Winchester prides himself on appearances, however, and Charles, resigned at last to life in that dismal swamp, set about to make his own corner of that small, bloody world as refined and cultured as he could manage. Expensive cognac, imported cheesesm a silk dressing gown sent from home - Charles maintained his reputed air of hughbrow sophistication, radiating an air smug superiority for all to see. It was a sham. Behind the smoke screen of overbearing pomposity hid a fragile soul, forcedfrom the role of surgical god into that of a lonely, frightened, _mortal_ man.

Charles could smile and sneer and bluff his way through the horror of the way - the upperclass mentality of 'sitff upper lip' had been drilled into him since childhood - but the only thing that made his act feel real was the music. A world made up of Mozart's lyrical gaiety, of Beethoven's fiery passion, of Bach's calm, ordered dignity could not possibly be the same world that house 24-hour OR sessions, lumpy fly-ridden oatmeal, and the tortured cries of bloody, limbless children. He lived a double life in those worlds and so maintained his sanity. 

With few exceptions, Charles guarded his precious music-world with all the jealousness of a miser, but the thought of an end to all the madness, the reality if finally - _finally!_ - going home made grateful. Benevolent. Lax. He saw the presence of a few musically talented refugees in the camp as a blessing, an uncharacteristically pleasant circumstance in a singularly unpleasant place. This was hig chance, he thought, to repay, to give back, to leave a portion of his comforting word behind with those who would still be suffering when he was home and safe. But no good deed goes unpunished and the gods of war, though temporarily defeated, do not go quietly.

Hawkeye is in camp today. The blue bathrobe has been replaced again by familiar olive drab and the smile he gives BJ very nearly reaches his eyes. He is not well, but he is better, and a year or two home again will see him scarred but healed. Inside the fragile, brittel exterior is a very strong soul. Charles has never been like Hawkeye.

Father Mulcahy is packing his few belongings into a battered green trunk. All he has in the world doesn't look like uch, but it will fill the small room the nuns have given him at the orphanage. The ever-present smile has returned to his face; eyes that only yesterday were brimming with confused agony are calm now, reflecting an inner serenity. He has sweetened the locust of his deafness with the honey of a defined sense of purpose. There aren't many in this world like Father Francis John Patrick Mulcahy.

When the call comes for one last OR session, one final wave of casualties, Charles is glad to go simply because it will really be the last. His step is light, he is buoyed and blinded by relief and hope, unprepared for the snare that will drag him down. When he loks into the eyes of the dying musician, something cracks inside him, splitting right down to his core. After all he has seen and heard, after all he has lived through, left behind, or given up, the music had remained his untainted safe haven. Now it too lies dying in the dust of Korea, a casualty of war tinged with blood.

"Know this," he had said to Potter, to the army, to the whole of Korea. "You can cut me off from the civilized world. You can incarcerate me with two moronic cellmates. You can torture me with your thrice daily swill, but you cannot - cannot! - break the spirit of a Winchester!"

No matter which side wins the war, someone has to lose.


End file.
